


The End of Something

by Letterstopaolo



Category: TharnType the Series (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Complicated Relationships, M/M, Romance, Semi-Public Sex, Slice of Life, Tenderness, Vulnerability, learning to fall in love again, redifining the relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:33:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24794695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Letterstopaolo/pseuds/Letterstopaolo
Summary: After the death of Tharn's father, Tharn goes through a change that almost costs him his marriage. Will Type weather the storm or will they be forced to reconcile and mend their relationship?Angst ++++
Relationships: Tharn Thara Kirigun/Type Thiwat Phawattakun
Comments: 21
Kudos: 129





	1. i.

Type is walking on his way to the O.R. when he sees Tharn at the end of the hallway waving his arms dramatically at the Chief of surgery. There's a tension to his stance that he has learned to pick up on these last few years. Type picks up his pace until the muted muffles become loud, harsh whispers.  
Tharn walks over to the large metal sink and opens flicks the tap open with his elbow. He starts scrubbing his hands aggressively when Type hears him. 

"Fuck that! We had a deal." Tharn's voice is too venomous even for Type's ears, and he's been hearing it for the last seven years. Something about him seems off. He looks like he could explode any minute from now. Type wants to intervene, but something tells him that the fight has nothing to do with him, and his presence would not be appreciated, so he stands far enough to hear but not be seen. 

"I invested in this shithole three years ago, and you promised me Chief when you retired, and now it's time to cash in on that promise, and you tell me it's not happening? Are you fucking with me?" 

"Lower your goddamn voice." 

Tharn turns the tap water off with his elbow and dries his hands off with a paper towel before rubbing his hands with a generous amount of alcohol. 

"Oh- come off it." 

"I know you are angry, but my hands are tied." 

"They weren't tied when you were begging me to invest in this department. I—I sacrificed my life for this. "This" Tharn gestures around "Is everything to me. I barely go home, I'm always here. If my Husband weren't just as much in this hellhole, I'd be a divorced by now." 

Type shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other. They have been having issues lately, but none of them has been addressing anything, as if speaking about it would make it real and right now the element of fantasy; that everything was fine, was all they had to hang on to. Tharn's face relaxes a bit. He folds his arms on his chest, his navy blue scrubs stretching tightly around his biceps. 

"I don't do charity, Chief. You promised me something, and I want what is owed to me, or you can deposit the half a million in my bank account by the time my shift ends." Tharn looks up at the clock above the automatic door, "and that's in six hours. So, I'd get to it if I were you." 

\+ 

At home, the tension is so high it feels like another audience between them. Watching and judging as they pretend to be a loving couple but avoiding the elephant in the room. They were growing apart, and Type didn't know how to fix it or if he wanted to fix it.  
Tharn is in front of the dresser. He has black pants open and a crisp white shirt tucked in the pants. Type is lying in bed naked watching Tharn get dressed; It's a mesmerizing sight. Everything Tharn does is with an absolute force, precise as if, if he cared to, he could make the furniture move without as much as a twitch of the muscles. Tharn's face is calm even though Type knows something is eating away at him. His actions don't betray his emotions; he catches Type watching him in the mirror and smiles at him. Tharn puts on the silver cufflinks that Type got him two Christmas' ago before he walks over to Type and kisses him chastely on his forehead. 

"What?"

"Nothing" 

"Okay—"

"What's going on at the hospital? Everyone's talking about how you are going to be named Chief of Surgery." 

Tharn sighs. It's a quiet sound as if he doesn't know he's doing it. 

"You didn't tell me about it. I had to hear it from others. I looked stupid." 

"I'm sorry. I didn't want to say anything until everything was final." 

"Well, it's final now so, tell me." 

Type moves to sit up in bed. He wants to stop where the conversation is going, but he knows it's been long overdue. If he doesn't say anything, neither will Tharn, and they'll be stuck doing this dance for the coming seven years. 

"Three years ago, the Chief approached me with a proposition. He said he was down on investors because the hospital wasn't pulling the numbers that it ought to. He asked if I was willing to be an investor and that I would get Chief of Surgery when he was going to retire three years later. So I did it. I wasn't hurting for cash, and being Chief is something I've always wanted." 

Type is stunned silent for a second. He feels like an acquaintance just told him about his dreams and ambitions. Like he was now supposed to say that it was really cool and wish him all the best. Not his love, not his Husband. 

"Three years? You've just been walking around with that information for three years?" 

"Well, I'm telling you now." 

"What are we even doing? You are keeping secrets—"

"Don't be dramatic," Tharn says dismissively as he sits further away from him and crosses his legs. 

"I am not dramatic. My Husband is doing things that I feel I should know, I should be a part of, and you tell me I'm dramatic. You are basically living another life." 

"What do you want me to say? I'm sorry? Well, I'm sorry." 

Tharn stands up and checks his hair in the mirror before putting on his suit jacket. 

"What are we even doing? Things are—" 

"Things are good. They are fine. Sure, they could be better, and we'll work on it. We always do." 

"When?"

"What?" 

"When are we going to work on "things"?"

"Soo—"

"We are barely home; you are doing your own thing. Living your dreams, conquering the world—Whatever."

"What is your fucking problem? Are you jealous of me? You don't think I can do it? Is that it?" It's that tone again, with that stance. Like he is looking down on Type, like Type should be thankful to breathe the same air as him. 

"I'm not fucking Jealous of you, Tharn, get over yourself...Fuck." 

He takes a deep breath before speaking. In the end, no one really knows it's ending. Even when the signs are a blaring horn, it always feels like just another fight. Tharn will roll his eyes and fuck off to wherever he fucks off to for hours at a time, and then he'll come back home. He'll lay his smooth cheek on his bare chest, smelling of his heady cologne, and he'll say he knows he's a dickhead, and that will be that until the next fight.  
Nothing feels different about this fight, but he feels his words should be chosen with care. Something inside him is cracking open, and he doesn't like what could spill from it.  
Is it that he has been keeping things from him? Is it that Tharn has dreams, ambitions that don't involve the both of them? Is it that he barely gets to see him, do things, be in love? Is it that they were at the end? Was—is this the end? 

"I'm going over to my parents for a while, so..."  
Type looks up at Tharn. His eyes feel too tight on his face, his skin too hot, his naked body under the sheets too foreign. He wants to hide. He wants to run away. 

"Type—don't do this." 

"No, it's just for a while. I need time to think." 

"What about work?"

"God—I don't care about work right now. I'll figure something out. Lhong will cover for me."

Tharn doesn't say anything anymore. There's a hopeful moment when he opens his mouth then shuts it immediately. He stands at the foot of the bed, looking like the man Type fell in love with in college; Soft, open; as if the most tender parts of his being was going to spill all over their Egyptian thread count duvet.  
Tharn doesn't say anything, and neither does Type. That's how he knows that it's the end.


	2. ii.

"Will you please make up with your husband, he's terrorizing all the residents. I don't think I can work another 48-hour shift…my girlfriend misses me". 

"First of all, you don't have a girlfriend." 

"I could, you know…and she'd miss me." 

"Fuck off."   
Type finishes signing the charts for his patients and hands them to the nurse at the station. Techno is leaning with his back to the desk, and his feet crossed at the ankles, his neon sneakers clashing terribly with his dark blue scrubs. He looks like he hasn't slept in weeks. 

"Where are you staying?" Type starts walking off to his office, knowing Techno will follow him. He smiles to a few people on the way and waits for Techno to enter his office before he shuts the door behind him. 

"At my parents." 

"Damn, that's a three-hour commute." 

"I know." 

"What did he do?" 

"Nothing, we are just in an extremely weird place right now, and I don't want to be around him."   
Techno pauses and looks up at Type. Something plays in his expression; his mouth opens and closes a few times before he rubs at his neck in frustration.

"You could stay with me; you'd be closer to work."   
Type bursts out laughing. 

"He's impossible. He put you up to that?"

"I actually suggested it."

"I'm not coming to live with you because one; you are disgusting, and two; I'd rather eat a fridge than hear you fucking some intern."   
Techno makes a dramatic move to look around when Type mentions his "intern" problem. Like everyone didn't know. 

"Please don't talk about that. Tharn said he'd kill me if I "besmirched" his time as Chief with sexual harassment lawsuits. "Besmirched!" Techno scoffs "Can you believe him? Who even talks like that?" 

"It's only a matter of time." 

"I haven't—we don't do anything that we haven't explicitly agreed on." 

"You are in a position of power; they might not feel like they can deny you and there are like a thousand people you could be dating—" 

"Well, that's rich. Your husband is our literal boss." 

"We got married before we started working here, so you can fuck right off." 

"I will be doing just that; I have to start my rounds. I'll see you later." 

"yeah."

\+ 

Type hadn't told his parents yet. He guesses they'll figure it out around the third-week mark when he doesn't make any plans to return home. Tharn was yet to call him or make any attempt to look for him. It's what Type wanted; to be left alone, but—fuck, what did he want? It couldn't end like this. Not on this anticlimactic note.   
Type paces a few times, picking up the phone and putting it down. What did he want to say? What was left to say, really? Tharn had let him leave without any effort to make him stay. His answer was clear; his job was everything, and Type did not want to be second to anyone or anything.   
Was he selfish? Was it because he didn't have any real ambitions?   
All thinking did was lead him to more thoughts until he couldn't bear being alone with his thoughts any longer. So, he picks up the phone, but he gets Tharn's secretary on the line. He asks her to leave a message for him with the location of their meeting. He knew Tharn would show up. He is shit at a lot of things, but he is punctual and never misses an anniversary or a birthday. He is always good for that.   
\+ 

Type didn't want to admit, but maybe too much of his life revolved around Tharn. Sure, he loved his job and his patients and the hospital. He had his own friends, and he had his hobbies when he could find the time, but, for a long time, perhaps too long, Tharn was the only one he knew his true self. He was someone who had looked at Type and seen his most ugly parts, parts that even he didn't like to examine too closely for fear his mind would close in on itself, and said that he understood, and he still loved him.   
Where else would he find that? 

\+ 

At the restaurant, Type arrives half an hour early. He takes a seat at the back of the restaurant next to the window. He orders a scotch, neat, and waits as the clock ticks away. He told his parents when he went back home to change. His mom cried but didn't really say anything. Type knew he loved Tharn as much as he loved him. Losing him might be as painful as losing her only son. His father, on the other hand, had grunted and done quick work of changing the subject. 

He places his hands flat on the table, his gold ring too shiny for the gloom atmosphere. It feels like it weighs a ton tonight, but he can't bear to take it off. That felt too final. He wasn't ready for that yet. Not now, not yet. 

"I'm sorry, I'm late. The meeting took forever, and those old men don't know how to stop talking." Tharn arrives looking impeccable. His crisp Armani suit hugs his body snuggly, and his hair dark chin-length hair frames his face perfectly. Type can't believe he had spent weeks trying to get him to cut his hair in the beginning.  
Type checks his watch and sees that Tharn is two minutes late. 

"It's barely two minutes." Tharn kisses him on his forehead, and it feels like his body is being woken up from slumber. What a slow and miserable feeling, wanting everything and nothing at all.

"Your mom called me." Tharn's low voice snaps him back to attention. "I thought nothing was decided."

"It isn't." 

"Could have fooled me."

"I don't want to fight. I just wanted to; I don't know, talk." 

"You packed your shit and left without a word." 

"You didn't stop me. You let me leave." 

"I was trying to give you space."

"For three weeks? You didn't even call." 

"I didn't want to make it worse."   
Tharn reaches out for Type's hand that's placed awkwardly on the table. 

"Come back home. Let me fix this." 

"How?"

"I could—I will make more time. Please, Type." Their food arrives, and Tharn falls silent for a moment. Tharn takes a gulp of his water and places it back on the table. He moves the glass a few inches to the right until it is in the very spot he took it from. Next, he rearranges the forks and knives, subtle movements that didn't register to anyone else. When everything is to his satisfaction, he places his hands on his lap and watches Type for a long moment. 

"I feel bad for feeling like your job is a mistress, and I am the wife who cooks your dinner and draws your bath while you dream about another woman when you fuck me. But it's how I feel. I can't stop it. I'm ashamed of it, but the feelings are there, and I can't make them disappear now that I've given them a voice."

Tharn doesn't reply. 

"And before you say anything, I am not jealous of you, but I am not happy for you either, and I feel awful about it. I love you. Being happy for you is the least I can do, and I can't seem to do it right." 

"Fuck—Type."

"I know. Fuck me, right?"

"I didn't mean it like that." 

"Do you hate me?"  
Tharn smiles weakly and shakes his head slightly. 

"I could never hate you."


	3. iii.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank You for all the lovely comments! <3

Techno is in his office, lying on the leather couch next to the floor to ceiling window. His flashy yellow shoes are thrown haphazardly on the Persian rug. His scrubs are wrinkled as if he had worn them straight out of the washer. 

"That mustache makes you look like a douche." 

"The ladies dig it." 

Type cocks an eyebrow at Techno before he hangs his lab coat. 

"You're leaving?" 

"Yeah, my shift's over, and I have to go look at apartments downtown."

"God, you are really doing this. I feel like my parents are getting a divorce." 

"We aren't divorcing…"

Techno rolls his eyes at him. 

"What are you doing then?" 

"Taking a break, I don't know, gathering my thoughts." 

"I feel like this is too dramatic considering whatever is going on between you guys. What if you take too much time "thinking" and "gathering your thoughts"? Tharn could move on at that time or you. The rift between the both of you could be unsalvageable." 

"It' s—it's complicated." 

"I think you are both going about this the wrong way." 

"You don't know anything."

"I know that you'll regret this."

"Based on what? Your years of dating experience?"   
Techno smiles, but there's a stark sadness to his smile. 

"Yeah, I don't know anything about that. But I know you, and I know Tharn, and I know you'll both be miserable at the end of this."  
There's a long silence where Type is busy trying to find something to say but knowing that his friend of many years is right. But what did that change? No one ever died of misery. Techno should know that firsthand.   
Neither of them says anything after that. Techno goes back to his nap, and Type gathers his things and leaves. 

+

On his way-out, Type walks calmly to the elevator like he knows where he is going. He presses the number to Tharn's new office floor. He looks up at the camera as if someone is watching him and thinking, "What the hell is he doing?". When the door opens, Type notices how quiet the executive floor is. There's barely any noise except the click-clack of his Ferragamo's on the marble floor. He walks up to the secretary, who is an older woman, probably in her fifties. Her hair is a mix of silver and black, and she has gold-rimmed glasses with a matching gold chain connected to the glasses. She stands up when Type reaches her desk and sits back down when he gestures for her to not call him in. She looks nervously at the end of the corridor, where Tharn's office is located but sits back down. 

"You will regret this." Techno's words are a noose around his neck as Type turns the doorknob. The door opens quietly, revealing Tharn's office. It's much bigger than Type's office. Where Type's office is vibrant with colorful centerpieces and accessories, Tharn's was monochrome and peaceful place. The furniture seems to blend well together, but it had no warmth nor personality to it. It told you nothing about the kind of person Tharn is.   
There's no one in the office, so Type removes his coat and puts his leather messenger bag on the black couch. He walks over to Tharn's desk and sits in his chair. He swivels around a bit, not really knowing why he came but not wanting to leave either. 

His eyes keep landing on the Manila-envelope on his desk, so he stops spinning around and opens it. He puts it back down again as Tharn walks into his office. He's talking on the phone and stops mid sentence when he sees Type sitting at his desk. 

"I'll call you back later." He says and hangs up the phone. He removes his suit jacket and hangs it on one of the chairs, puts his phone on the table. 

"What are you doing here?"

"You're selling the house?" Type waves the enevelope to Tharn.

"Seemed like the right thing to do since you are leaving."  
Type feels his throat close up. The noose of Techno's words getting tighter. He didn't want to go back, but this all felt too fast, too final. 

"You weren't going to tell me?"

"Like you told me that you are moving out?"

"Are you punishing me for wanting space?"

"Space? Fuck you. We are married, you don't move out because we are at odds with each other." 

"There's more going on, and you know it." 

"Like what?"

"Your father—"

"We are not talking about that."

"It wasn't your fault. It could've happened to anyone."  
Tharn's face falls like a curtain at the end of the play. He chews at his bottom lip and looks down at his shoes. He kicks at something, a small gesture. When he looks back up at Type, his face is wiped clean of any betraying emotion. 

"No."   
He walks up a bit closer to the desk but makes no move to get any closer. 

"We don't talk about that. Not now, not ever."   
Type shuts up.   
"It's my house too. I live there …don't I get a say?"

"What do you want, Type? Like, seriously? What is it? You leave me in the middle of the night. Don't say a word for three weeks even though we work in the same building, and today I woke up to all your stuff gone. No heads-up. But I have to be considerate of you and your feelings. What about me? What about what I want? How I feel about all this? Don't I get a say in it?"   
Type stands up because he knows if he stays any longer, Tharn will strong-arm him into coming back home. He'll be weak to his promises like he always is, and nothing will change. 

"I'll tell you this, I'll come back when you get help and start talking about your father." 

"This has nothing to do with him." 

"EVERYTHING about you has to do with him. This sudden ambition to become Chief? I mean, where the hell did that come from?"

"You don't understand." 

"Try me."   
Tharn walks up to him, pushes him lightly until he's sitting on the desk. He stands between his legs and opens Types suit jacket, all the while watching his reaction. He puts one hand on his waist and tugs him closer until there is no space between them and the other cradles his nape. Tharn doesn't make a move to kiss him and holds him there, close enough that they share the same breath but nothing more than that.   
"We are not talking about my father." He says quietly before he kisses him on the lips. It's a soft, tentative kiss. Too soft for the emotions that are playing in his face.   
"Is this it for us? After all these years?" Tharn asks. "You move out, and I sell the house, and we what? Continue working together like you aren't the love of my existence."  
Tharn shakes his head. "No. This is not how it ends." 

\+ 

Four years ago, Type had left to see his parents in the countryside before moving closer to him. It was like any other trip, Tharn had fussed over him, following him to the door, rattling off a checklist as if he hadn't made this very trip a million times before they met. 

"Your phone is fully charged?"   
Type sighed and rolled his eyes. 

"Yes, Jesus. Please, everything is going to be fine. It's not the first time I've gone without you." 

"That was before, and this is now."

"I'll be fine, I promise."   
Types entered his car suddenly, wanting to stay. 

"Call me when you get there." 

"I will."   
They kissed, and Tharn finally let him leave.   
Nothing felt off about that day. This was a well-practiced ritual. Every time Type went on a trip without Tharn, he would fuss not trusting Type to do anything on his own, and Type would let him for peace of mind.   
Type watched Tharn from the rearview mirror as he drove off. He didn't know that they would never be the same after that.


	4. iv

The first time Tharn was confronted by death, he is twelve years old. It is abrupt as most deaths are. He wakes up in the middle of the night to sneak a midnight snack off the shelves when he sees his father and mother at the dinner table. They sit there for a long time, saying things and then falling into long lapse of silence. Tharn’s father’s head is bowed in his palms, and his mother is next to him with her arm around his shoulder.   
Tharn’s father says, “It’s too soon. For me, for him. Is that wrong of me to have wanted more time with him?”  
His mother shakes her head and smiles at his father, and Tharn remembers how sad they both looked. Like the world would soon open beneath their feet and swallow them whole. Like they had seen something they wished to have never known. 

He never went down for the snack; instead, he sat at the stair steps watching them until he fell asleep, and when Tharn woke up, it was morning, and he was tucked neatly under the covers of his bed.

\+ 

When death comes again, he’s thirty-three, and just like his father, he’s not prepared. It’s too abrupt, too soon, too cruel in how there’s no warning.   
He wishes he could go back to those stair steps, close all the doors on grief, close all the windows on everyone’s imposed curiosity with his well-being. Go back to those stair steps, watch with quiet dispassion as others hurt, and feel like in his house, there was nothing that could hurt him. His father was there, after all. 

“Tharn?” In the distance, his brother, Thorn, calls him. He looks like their father the most. He has his color and slim face where Tharn and his younger sister Tanya were tan like their mother.   
“Where do you find these places?” Tharn asks as he looks around the restaurant noticing it for the first time. The interior is alive with color; splashes of red and orange everywhere. He feels so out of place.   
“That’s my job. Find locations, buy it, renovate it, sell it at a higher price…rinse and repeat.” His brother says as he picks up the menu. “Mom’s been asking about you, by the way.”   
“What did you say?”   
“That you were coming this weekend.”   
“Fuck—I’m swamped at work. I can’t.”   
“You’ve been swamped at work for the past four years, I think you can take a weekend off, no?”  
“I can…I just, things are better like this.”   
“How?”  
“I don’t want to upset her.”   
“You mean about you and Type? Fuck, man, what did you do?”  
“Why—”  
“Save it, man. You can’t do that with me.”   
Tharn sighs and looks outside. His face closed off. He struggles to keep himself from fixing the cutlery on the table. The impulse is almost too violent to control, so he changes his position in his leather seat, folds his arms across his chest, and looks at Thorn.   
“I just can’t do it. Not with Type, not with you and not with mom.”   
“We all lost him. It wasn’t just you. He wasn’t just your father.”   
“I know that.” The waiter arrives at their table, and Thorn falls silent as they are served their lunch. He thanks her politely, and she blushes before she goes.  
“Then why are you avoiding all of us?”   
“I just don’t like going back there.” Tharn says and looks away. Sometimes, when his brother is looking at him, he gets this look, a slight softening of the eyes, though his brows are furrowed. His mouth opens and then closes, and he knows what Thorn wants to say. That he was sorry, Tharn felt it, he bled it, sorry is all anyone was lately, and he didn’t like hearing it because that’s all he felt.   
Tharn takes a few bites of his salad and then puts his knife down, his throat too tight for swallowing. Two seconds later, he moves his knife a little to the left, his fork follows, and then his glass of water. When he looks up, Thorn is watching him.   
“I haven’t seen you do that in a long time.”  
“It’s nothing.” Tharn puts his napkin on the table.   
“I have to go back to work.”   
Thorn stands when Tharn gets up to leave and says, “Talk to Type. Come home, talk to us.”   
Tharn shakes his head before he leaves quickly, he feels something come up that he would rather not examine, rather not share with anyone. His grief was his own. It was intimate and private. It was the last thing of his father’s that he had left. 

\+ 

At work, memories bounce back and forth in his mind. In the meeting, he’s vaguely aware of what everyone is saying. Sometimes, he’ll nod or give a curt answer, but really, he’s somewhere else. There he is twelve years old at his grandfather’s funeral. The guests have left, and it’s just his father sitting on the straw carpet looking solemnly at his grandfather’s portrait. Tharn’s father’s pale skin a stark contrast to his all-black attire. Tharn remembers sitting next to him and wanting to say something. Do something. Just so he wouldn’t have to look at that look on his face. In the end, words fail him. What could a twelve-year-old say to make anything better? So he holds his father’s hand and squeezes it. His father looks at him as if he just noticed that he is there and smiles sadly at him.   
They don’t say anything for a long time. Tharn’s father stares and stares as if in deep conversation with the portrait, and after a long while, he stands, they bow and takes Tharn with him. 

\+ 

“Maya, I’m taking the rest of the day off. Don’t forward my calls to my private number.”  
His secretary looks at him, surprised, and struggles to respond. “You should take the afternoon off.”   
As he leaves, he is suddenly aware of how tired he feels. His shoulders are stiff, his heart is heavy, he misses Type so much he could scream for all the world to hear, but he has no one. After years of alienating everyone, he’s finally alone.   
He walks fast to the elevator door, presses the key, and taps his foot while he waits for the doors to open. When they open, he steps in as if wanting to break into a run. The elevator takes too long for his liking to get him to the underground parking lot. He gets in his car, throwing his bag in the back seat of his all-black Maserati, and then he hits the gas.   
He wants to go everywhere and nowhere.   
Go back, so far back in time, and sit on that straw mat next to his father. Now knowing what he wanted to say and wishing his father was here to say those words to him.

Tharn turns on the radio then turns it off immediately. His thoughts too loud; he can barely hear the music. He’s driving too fast even for the highway. He can’t get wherever he’s going fast enough, and at the same time, he doesn’t want to get there. 

He knows he’s at the precipice of his sorrow. Any step closer, he will fall, and there’ll be nothing left to salvage. Not with Type, not with his siblings and not with his mother. Tharn turns off the engine after parking his car. His father’s ashes are stored next to his grandfather’s. In between them, there are pictures that his family brought over the years. Tharn notices that there are pictures of him and Type that he didn’t bring. He hadn’t been there since the funeral.   
He examines them for a long time, not saying anything, feeling foolish for his silence, then silly for wanting to speak. He stands straighter, his hands clasped in front of him. He thinks of the things he wanted to tell his father then; about the guilt and how it wasn’t his fault for not being there when his grandfather died. That his grandfather would have loved him no matter what kind of man he became. That he was good, to his core, he was a good man and a good father and that he was lucky to have him. That he was sorry, he hadn’t come earlier. That he was sorry, he was ruining everything. That it had been too soon for him too just as it had been too soon for his grandfather. That he would have wanted more time with him. He looks down after a moment, and after a long, long time, he lets himself feel. His chin wobbles, and his lips shake. His throat tightens, and he feels the perfect uncaring façade crumbling into fat, ugly tears. Tharn thought of the things he wanted to hear and knew that he was the only one who could speak them and understand them to be true because no one knew how much he hurt better than he did. He had made damn sure of that. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapters are just going to be my kings mending things between them. Also, i just wanted to write a slice if life story with no real big plot points. You know just two husbands, doing their husband thing.


	5. v.

Tharn doesn't drive back home; instead, he goes to his mother's house. The gates are a pristine white. The front garden an immaculate green carpet, The paint on the porch fresh.  
Something about that unsettles him. He thought after their father things would just crumble; instead, the exterior looks like not a day had gone by since the last time he had opened the doors and walked into the foyer, hang his old brown leather coat and started speaking before he knew if there was someone in the house.   
His mother waits for him in front of the large white oak door. Her yellow sundress covers her ankles. She puts her hand to cover her face from the blazing sun and smiles meekly when Tharn comes closer.   
"Thorn said you would come in the weekend," She says before hugging him." But I didn't expect anything."   
"I've been—"   
"Busy. I know." She says quietly as she rubs his back and ushers him inside. They walk like that; Tharn feeling like the house was too large and too small while his mother rubbed his back soothingly. 

She guides him to that same dining room Tharn had seen his father breakdown for the first time after losing his own father. The irony isn't lost on him as he takes a seat.  
"You never used to let us in here." He says absently as he looks around for signs of decay, a chip of the wallpaper here, a scratch on the wood here, a crack on the ceiling, a sign that she was holding up just as badly as he was. But he finds nothing.   
"You would eat and touch the furniture with your dirty little hands, scribble on the walls… you and your siblings were absolute menaces. And now you're all grown up. You won't even come to see me."   
"I was busy—"  
"You were never too busy to visit your mom before." Her mother places a placemat on the table before putting what can only be described as a mountain of food in front of him. "Why won't you come to see me?" She asks sadly. Tharn looks down at the food, his vision too blurry to discern what was really in front of him. After a moment, he looks up and sees what he had been looking for in her face; the crack, The chip of worn out paint, the sign of absolute devastation in his mother's face. She looks like the years had swept her violently back to shore.   
"Ma," He says as if to add something after, but nothing follows. He hadn't called her, hadn't set foot in their home, hadn't shown his face to his mother in years, and now that he was here, the words failed him. He felt so sorry. So ashamed of himself, of how he had handled everything. He doesn't dare say anything else.   
He picks up his spoon and takes a pile of hot rice and stew into his mouth. Chewing as if he didn't know how to.   
"I'm sorry." He says finally after he swallows.   
"Are you?" She doesn't take a seat. She stands behind the chair that used to be their father's. Watching him eat. Her lips thin with disapproval? Disappointment? Hate? He couldn't tell, but it's something. Still, her voice is soft, calm, perhaps even loving to some. 

"Tell me why you haven't been around all these years." She pulls out the chair and finally sits. "The truth, this time, please."  
Tharn puts his spoon down. Having spent the last ten minutes or hour, he didn't really know, shoving heaps of food in his mouth to keep from screaming.   
Why hadn't he been around all these years? Did he know? Was it the same answer as to why he had ruined his marriage? Why was he always at the hospital? Why he didn't really talk to his siblings all that much?   
He opens his mouth, and when he stops talking, the sun has gone back down. He talks about the day his father died and the guilt of not having been there for him. He talks about how he hates that the house looks the same as if his father had just left to go pick up some milk at the grocery store like he'll be back.   
He doesn't say anything about how he is ruining his marriage. She doesn't ask, Tharn thinks she knows because she asks him to stay the night when night falls, and he makes a move to leave.   
"I think you should stay. You don't look too well."   
"It's been a long day."   
His mother clears the table and hugs him before she ushers Tharn to bed.   
They walk towards the stairs, and when they reach Tharn's door, his mom holds his hand and stops him.   
"Listen, I know you think the grief you feel is worse, more painful than anyone else's, and I understand, but you have to stop carrying it around as if it is the only memory of him you have left." She squeezes his hand when she sees Tharn looking down, chewing on his bottom lip. "You have to forgive yourself."   
He nods. 

* * *

Not much has changed since college. His room is still the same. He knows if he opens his nightstand drawer, he'll find Techno's headphones he borrowed and never gave back. He'll find a few of Type's pens and his old band performance flyers.   
He removes his clothes unceremoniously and goes to bed. 

* * *

"He's been out for at least 16 hours."   
"Well, you could've called an ambulance what if his—"  
"Don't say that word in here."  
"I think he's just sleeping."   
"Shut up, Thanya. What kind of fucking med school student are you? Who fucking sleeps for 16 hours?"   
"There's obviously something wrong with him, and Thorn, don't cuss in my house."   
"I'm sorry, Ma." 

Tharn opens his eyes to all his family members, plus Techno crowded around his bed.   
"Jesus, what the fuck? I feel like I went on the worst bender of the century."   
"He's fine," Thanya says, rolling her eyes before she leaves his room.   
Tharn makes a move to get out of bed when Type places a firm hand on his chest and pushes him back in bed. "calm down. You have a fever."  
"I feel—" he frowns, and even that makes his head feel like it would split open.   
"Yeah, I thought so. Take it easy, or I'll have Techno drive you to the E.R."   
"No hospitals," Tharn says quietly. His mom and brother leave right after Type tells them that he needs to rest.   
"I can't believe my mom called the whole family. I'm surprised I haven't seen my aunts and uncles in here too."   
"They are all downstairs."   
"She's unbelievable."   
"I'm kidding. She was worried when she tried to wake you up, and you weren't responding."   
They fall in silence. "Scoot over." Type says before removing his shoes and coat. He lies next to him and pulls the duvet over them.   
"You came back."   
"I came back." Tharn answers.  
Type nods like this explains everything.   
"I went to visit my dad yesterday," Tharn says quietly. He turns, so he is facing Type. "It was a lot harder than I thought, but I didn't die. I can't believe that's the first time I've been there."   
"I wish I could' ve—" Type says. He looks at Tharn's hands, which are lying on top of the covers.   
"I know."  
"I'm sorry for everything. I know I've fucked up beyond even—I can't imagine that you'd want to be with me after everything."   
Type shakes his head incredulously. Just a small shake and an eye roll. "I accept your apology, but you don't know what I want. You never ask, you just assume, and then we end up here."   
Tharn clears his throat. He had missed him. Type. His soft mannerisms. His voice, the cadence of his speech, always harsh, hurried as if he couldn't wait to get to the next topic. He missed these moments, lying next to him, and knowing that he could do it again were he to wish it. Now, what was left was just maybes, and he had no one to blame but himself.  
"What do you want?"  
"I want you to be honest with me. No more lies. No more hiding things because you think I can't handle it."   
Tharn nods. Fair enough, he could do that.   
"If we are going to do this, you have to trust me with your pain." When he says this, his voice is the softest of kisses on his wounds. It soothes and feels too raw at the same time.   
"You have to trust me with your grief." Tharn looks down, he realizes there's nothing around to keep his hands busy. To fidget, to fix. "It's that, or we have to leave each other, and I don't think I can survive that."   
Tharn nods. There's nothing he can say to that.   
To trust. To forgive oneself. Where was he to get the strength to do that?   
"You have to." Type says. He holds Tharn's face so tenderly, and kisses his forehead and then urges him to sleep. He doesn't leave him that evening, and when he wakes up, Type's still there next to him. 


	6. vi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Start's engine* Let's see if this still works.

The next morning Tharn is in a hurry to leave. He makes quick work of showering, and when he finds Type barely dressed on his bed, there's something strange in the way he looks at him. "We are leaving." He says curtly.

He packs the bag that Type had brought with him in a daze. Creating order in his haste instead of chaos. Type watches him with a detached fascination.

"What's the hurry? You barely spent enough time with your mother." Type says carefully.

"We'll visit during our break." He answers with his back to Type."Can you get dressed?" He says after a long pause.

"She'll be gutted to know we are leaving so soon."

"I have so much to do. I didn't plan to be gone this long, you know." Tharn pushes him with little gentleness towards the bathroom. Type stands at the entrance suddenly overwhelmed with a deep disappointment. He doesn't know what he expected, but his reply crashes him.

"Work..." He says. "Right." What else could it be?

Tharn barely spares him a glance before he leaves the room. The bed is made, the clothes tidied up, you could hardly tell someone had used the room.

* * *

After getting ready, he dresses in one of Tharn's old band t-shirts and plain jeans. He takes a bit longer than necessary to go downstairs, scared that the short moment they had last night was already over and they would go back to their usual ways. He would ask and ask, and Tharn would continue not to give him anything.

When he finds the courage to leave Tharn's bedroom, Tharn is already at the door.

"What got under his ass?"

Type smiles at Thanya's question. "He's insufferable. If I were you, the divorce papers would be freshly printed and signed." She says this as she hugs him from the side. She lingers a little longer and lays her head on his upper-arm, too short of reaching his shoulders. They stand like that, watching Tharn for a minute before he notices them.

"You ready to leave?"

"Jesus. Feed the man fast. He hasn't even had breakfast."

"It's noon."

"Lunch, then."

"We'll eat on the way."

Tharn's mother materializes from behind them with a basket of packed food fit for a feast and hands it to Tharn.

"Can't you stay a bit longer?" She asks with sadness in her voice. "We could—"

"We have to beat the traffic." He says brashly. After Type gives him a look, he hugs his mother and tells her they will visit again.

Thanya leaves his side with an eye-roll. She hears her start an argument with Tharn in the background, but he is too focused on Tharn's face. He's frowning, his face is still pale, but his words sound soft to his ears.

"We'll visit," He says again as he hugs his mother and takes Type's hand leading him to the door. He ushers him to the car, and there he has only the time to wave goodbye to his mother-in-law before they take off.

"God, you are so—"

"I'll make it up to them. Urgent matters need to be taken care of at the moment." He says, speeding on the highway.

"Like work?"

"Among other things."

That shuts him up, and he gives up on any conversation. It feels like the night before had not happened. His hope that they could—oh, he doesn't know. What had he really hoped for? It wasn't like he didn't know the kind of man Tharn was. Rigid, steadfast, and controlling. Change was only possible if he was the one controlling the currents. Would anything really change just because he had asked for it?

Type feels anger start bubbling at the surface, but it is the disappointment driving him to say something. What could he say? He knew this would happen? Trust was a small price to pay for the years he had spent amicable on his arm, following blindly, never asking for anything.

Once, when they were much younger, Tharn had asked the same of him. It seemed only right to ask the same of him.

Type sighs and turns the radio on to distract himself. When he starts nervously moving his leg, Tharn puts his hand on his knee absently to stop him from moving.

A small gesture. Something he has done a million times before, the memory of it feels like it could bring him to tears. He instead looks out the window as the heavens open, and it starts pouring.

* * *

He would say it was funny, but there's no humor in their situation. It had been years of one of them carrying the other's burden. In the beginning, it had been Tharn. Type, then too young, too volatile, had been lost. Had it not been for Tharn giving him a chance, he was afraid that he would not have known love nor kindness.

He had asked him to trust him then. A night when they had been fighting about something completely insignificant: Tharn had taken him to a pub they both frequented; he had ordered drinks quietly, smiling at the waitress when she came to take their order. You couldn't tell they had been screaming at each other just mere hours ago.

They drank quietly, neither looking at the other. After the alcohol had soothed and smoothed the edges of their anger, Tharn had cleared his throat and said, "I can't do this with you anymore."

Type frowned at the word "this." What was it really that he couldn't do. Yes, they casually slept with each other, and in a moment of weakness, he had confided in him. Maybe that was a mistake. Now that he knew his secret he found him dirty.

"Don't be dramatic." He said brashly to mask the hurt. "There's no—"He gestured vaguely between them and said "This" with as much distaste as he could muster.

"Listen, I'm tired of lying to you and myself," He said, defeated. "I love you."

Type had been floored by his casual declaration. Tharn had never given the impression to be swept up by emotions. While the sex was great and affectionate in bed, he barely gave him any attention out of it.

"I can't pretend to not care about you and the way you speak about me any longer." He took a sip of his drink, looking away from Type before saying, "I know you think I am— I don't know, but It hurts."

"What do you mean?" Type had asked. He knew he felt something for Tharn but was it enough to call it love? And what did he really know of love? All people had ever done was take advantage of him and hurt him beyond repair. He could not take anymore hurt. He had reached his limit.

"I'm saying that I'm not going to hurt you."

Type had looked at him skeptically.

"Trust me."

The words had formed in that small moment that Tharn had given him. He wanted to say he was not like Tharn. There was nothing bright-eyed nor unassuming about him. Type had seen the devil, and he had marked him, someone, to collect later. He wasn't good. He wasn't _clean_. There's was nothing to love here.

At that moment, the urge to run or say something extremely cruel had overwhelmed him with a violence he had not felt in a long time.

He had wondered many years after that what exactly Tharn had seen in him that he had not been able to see in himself. It had taken a long time, but he had opened up to him, trust had turned to love, and after that, he had wanted to be perfect. Someone deserving of his love.

* * *

When they reach Type's downtown highrise apartment, Type get's out of the car with little care for the rain. He needs space to clear his head. He rushes to the lift, his wet shirt sticking to his slender frame, his short hair a mess on his head. He's shivering; small drops of water trickle down his face to the floor as he waits for the lift to come down. Tharn stops behind him. Their bags on one hand and an unreadable expression on his face.

Type wants to ask him to leave, but he can't bear any more distance between them after the last months apart.

The lift arrives, and they enter in silence. Tharn stands close to him, but he is careful not to touch him. When they reach his apartment, Type rushes to the door, almost tripping on his own feet. He has a hard time getting the right key at the door and an even harder time opening the door. Tharn stands behind him; his body warmth seeping through their wet clothes. Tharn puts his hand over his and jerks the key to the right. "Calm down," he says close to his ear.

Once he is in the comfort of his home, he feels safe enough to let his emotions take the reins.

"Well, I'm here. safe and sound." His voice sounds foreign. Like he is on the verge of a shrill but not passionate enough about it.

Tharn watches him with quiet interest as he removes his shoes. He enters the living room, following Type into his bedroom. There he removes his watch and places it on Type's untidy dresser together with his keys and wallet. Clearly, he had no intention of leaving just yet.

"Are you angry with me?" He asks. His face betrays no emotion as he watches Type watching him.

"I just—I thought we had a moment and that things were looking up for us. And then you wake up in a weird mood and rush us out of your parent's home. You don't say anything to me in the car. You look like you are in pain every time you look at me." The words are rushing out of his mouth at full speed. He has little time to process what he is saying and looks to Tharn to know if he has said something wrong. Tharn's face, in turn, gives nothing away. "All this to return to _work_? Do I really mean so little to you?"

Tharn sighs and walks to Type who's hands are crossed tightly to his chest. He feels ridiculous for feeling the way he does, but there's no stopping it. Just a little more coaxing from Tharn, and he would start bawling. Tharn hugs him, and he is too—something to return the embrace. Angry? Sad? He isn't sure. But it is a bitter cocktail he has forced himself to drink.

Tharn lifts his chin, so they are looking at each other. The height difference between them barely worth mentioning, but the gesture makes him feel so small. Fragile. Protected.

"Don't."

"I haven't said anything."

"You are going to say I am dramatic."

"I rushed us out of my mother's home because I wanted to fuck you the minute I opened my eyes, and I couldn't."

"Oh," Type says quietly. A warmth rushes from his neck all the way to his ears and settles on his cheeks. he feels too embarrassed to utter a word, so he fidgets with the wet ends of Tharn's shirt, which is half untucked.

Tharn rests his forehead on Type's, silently breathing him in with his eyes closed. His breath comes out in huffs as if he is climbing something. His hands stay steady on his back.

Type still restless cannot help himself. He says, "I don't want us to go back to how things were before. I can't go through that again."

"I'm sorry. I want to fix it."

"I know you are, and I know you will."

He had once asked to trust him. He wouldn't hurt him, he had promised, and he wanted so hard to believe it. With everything that he had, despite everything that had transpired between them.

Tharn opens his eyes. The look he gives Type is enough to make him weak at the knees.

"I've missed you," he says, a sad smile on his lips.

"I've missed you too." He says back, but the words don't seem enough to explain how he feels at this very moment. He feels too exposed; as if they were back to those days when he could not grasp his emotions no matter how hard he tried—the days when he seemed to be dancing possessively to someone's harsh beat. Thirsty, Feet bleeding, hoping someone would take him out of his misery.

Trust?

He could do that. He had done it before.

Tharn rubs his wet face on Type's. Rubbing their lips together, lightly kissing him, his breath coming out in warm puffs. His hands busy themselves rubbing up on his back and his hands, and his chest.

He stops and looks at him. His chest heaving up and down. A wild look in his eyes.

"I want to touch you." He says as if his patience is being tested.

"You are touching me."

"Not like this. It's not enough." He says, "More. Everywhere. Non-stop."


End file.
